I hate Strictly! It's not just the cheesy jokes, fake tans and vacuous hosts that set SARAH VINE's teeth on edge. What's even more maddening is that her cerebral husband is hooked

At the risk of adding fuel to the fire of those misguided few who accuse this fine newspaper of peddling hate, I have a terrible confession to make.

An awful, shameful secret that I have been carrying inside me for years. A terrible, wicked, unforgivable prejudice for which I am truly, deeply sorry. But I can keep up the pretence no longer. I have to come clean. I hate Strictly Come Dancing.

Actually, that’s not true. I hate Strictly Come Dancing a lot.

Really, a lot. It is, in my humble opinion, nothing more than inane, two-dimensional tripe which, like most things on TV these days, serves not so much as an example of the cultural dumbing-down of our society as evidence of a full-frontal lobotomy.

Strictly Come Dancing, featuring hosts Claudia Winkleman and Tess Daly, is watched by millions every week but Sarah Vine is not a fan

Everything about it, from the irritating theme tune to the absurd, overblown choreography to the cheesy costumes and the fact that everyone on it is orange (fake tan is such a central part of the aesthetic that the show actually employs a fake tan consultant) upsets me, deeply.

I don’t care that it has three trillion viewers. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.

What’s worse, I can’t escape it. My other half — the Environment Secretary Michael Gove — absolutely adores the damn thing. He can barely contain himself in between episodes.

It doesn’t matter what else is going on in our lives — however much work he has to do, whatever crisis is at hand — come 6.45pm on Saturday, 7.15pm on Sunday, you’ll always find him glued to the telly for Strictly.

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Quite why he loves it so much I’ve never been able to fathom. Perhaps there’s something about the sight of grown men in tights and wigs that reminds him of his old days at the Department of Justice. Maybe some of the saucier numbers bring back memories of his time as Chief Whip.

Or could it just be the fact that, being a bloke after all, he quite likes looking at ladies in skimpy costumes wiggling their hips.

I, meanwhile, find the sight of a man in a fishnet bodystocking about as appealing as David Brent in a mankini. The Strictly wardrobe team could make even Brian Blessed look a trifle camp.

Particular loathing is reserved for the terrible ‘professional’ sets, in which dancers prance around in a semi-balletic manner to some ghastly Muzak re-hash of a pop song.

This year, for Halloween, they chose to re-interpret Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams as a sexy Dracula mash-up, complete with masked female vampires in tights and feathers pole-dancing around a four-poster bed while their ‘victim’, in billowing white shirt, waved his arms around like Kate Bush trying to hail a taxi. It was terrifying, but not in a good way.

It wasn’t always like this. Not while Sir Bruce Forsyth was alive. And I don’t just say that out of respect for the old rogue — after all, he died only three months ago; but because he was the one who made it work.

With Brucie at the helm, Strictly was so much more than just another slice of Saturday night silliness. It had real charm, a certain kitsch chic, a kind of golden-age-of-TV flair that took it to a whole other level.

Forsyth brought a cultish edge to the inherently cringe-worthy nature of the material.

It was because of him that the idea of sitting down of a Saturday night in the 21st century to watch men and women with rigid smiles and even more rigid buttocks gliding around beneath a glitterball went from being irredeemably naff to wholly acceptable, even rather cool.

He just inhabited the role so well. Maybe this was something to do with the fact that he, like ballroom dancing itself, having once been wildly popular, had rather fallen out of favour.

Until, that is, Strictly came along, whereupon like some kind of light entertainment phoenix, he rose from the ashes to conquer all.

There was a pleasing showbiz synergy about a man who, like an old double-breasted suit, hadn’t bothered trying to re-invent himself, but had simply waited to come back into fashion again.

Here was the same old Brucie, with the same old catchphrases introducing the same old dance routines with names from another era — the foxtrot, the tango, the waltz — but in an entirely new and very modern framework, that of the celebrity talent show.

Karen Clifton, pictured here at the launch of this year's Strictly Come Dancing

Like a tired old piece of furniture sanded down and given a lick of Farrow & Ball, Brucie and ballroom went from shabby to chic, from hopelessly outdated to fabulously vintage.

That, combined with the fact he was such an old pro, made Strictly the show it was. And there was no doubt he was a pro: he anchored it with such effortless brilliance.

He had such keen antennae, could sense every subtle shift in the temperature of the studio audience, knew exactly how far he could push things.

He was often subversive, sometimes dangerous. He controlled the set like Simon Rattle controls an orchestra.

If ever a contestant or a judge got a little out of line, perhaps fancied themselves a little too much, Brucie would rein them in with a flick of his acid tongue, dial them down just enough to keep everything in harmony — all the while smiling as though he were doling out sweets to infants.

He was a true giant in that respect, and Strictly was never the same after he announced his retirement in 2013. For a while Len Goodman, uncle Len, cut from the same cloth, took on his mantle. Like Bruce, he may have seemed like a soft touch — awarding even the most hapless two-left-footers an optimistic score, erring always on the side of generosity.

But that cheeky barrow-boy exterior, such a contrast to the highfalutin critiques of his fellow judges, concealed a core of steel. Despite being the least showy-offy of the judges, he was the one who most knew his onions, something that he, like Bruce, would deftly remind everyone from time to time.

It is his retirement at the end of the last series that, I’m afraid, has tipped the balance for me.

New head judge Shirley Ballas is no Arlene Phillips (the original ‘mum’ of the show, who was booted off in 2008 to make way for Alesha Dixon, who later defected to Britain’s Got Talent on ITV and was replaced by Darcey Bussell).

The show has not been the same since former host Sir Bruce Forsyth stood down, according to Sarah Vine

Particular loathing is reserved for the terrible ‘professional’ sets, in which dancers prance around in a semi-balletic manner to some ghastly Muzak re-hash of a pop song, says Sarah Vine

And with Claudia Winkleman and Tess Daly fronting on their own and on an equal footing, the dynamic is just all wrong.

For a start, Tess and Claudia are no Ant and Dec. Sure, there is plenty of girlish banter, but the truth is they have no on-screen chemistry whatsoever.

Claudia’s natural warmth and talent for mischief and comedy, not to mention her quick mind (she has a First from Cambridge) are downplayed hopelessly, presumably in order to stop her overshadowing Tess, who may tower over her in stature, but certainly does not do so in charm.

Tess’s icy smile never reaches her eyes, and for all her faux chumminess, she’s about as joyless as a root canal procedure.

As for the judges — well, Darcey is very good, albeit in a saccharine-sweet sort of way — but some of the ensembles she wears are so weirdly bad you’d swear someone in the wardrobe department had a grudge against her.

In real life she is actually very elegant and beautifully dressed, so goodness only knows what’s going on there.

Craig Revel Horwood and Bruno Tonioli, meanwhile, remain good value for money with their good cop/bad cop routine — although after 15 series it’s not so much wearing thin as in need of a whole head transplant.

Something needs to change — or that glitterball will have to go back into storage, Sarah Vine said

But the real nail in the coffin, I’m afraid, is Shirley Ballas, a woman whose icy ambition would extinguish the fires of hell.

It’s as though the BBC rang up Central Casting and requested one from the vault marked ‘smiling assassin’.

She’s like the Wicked Stepmother, Cruella de Vil and Anne Robinson all rolled into one.

One former semi-professional dancer of my acquaintance describes her as ‘a publicity-hungry crazy’.

And indeed she is well known in the industry for being utterly — how can I put this politely? — focused.

None of which would matter — in fact, it ought to make for a delicious and intriguing mix — were it not for the fact that without a strong character to direct the drama and keep Ballas in her box, the whole thing descends into farce.

You know before they’ve even opened their mouths what the judges are going to say — not to mention the presenters (‘You’re fabulous!’), the contestants (‘It’s changed my life’) and the professional dancers (‘I’ve made a friend for life’).

Ballroom dancing is a fantastic spectacle and a wonderful, disciplined art. At its best, it is moving, spellbinding and awesomely athletic.

And Strictly used to be a wonderful combination of high and low, the perfect light entertainment formula.

But not any more. It’s become a tawdry bit of panto, lacking in any of the self-knowledge or self-deprecating irony that once made it work.

Something needs to change — or that glitterball will have to go back into storage.